The first thing Sherlock registered when he woke up was how surprisingly, painfully, gloriously hard he was. Then, he noticed there was a hand on his arse, and suddenly, he wasn't that surprised by his first realisation. Apparently, they hadn't moved much during the night; he could feel John's warm breath on his neck, the slow rise and fall of his chest against his own, and of course, the strong hand on his arse. Just thinking about that unexpected, yet not unpleasant touch made even more blood rush downwards, and he felt his cock twitch against…what was that? John's upper thigh, most likely. That wouldn't do; he had to get out of his bed before John woke up and noticed the erection pressed against him. Slowly and reluctantly, Sherlock started pulling away, but John groaned in his sleep, and he tightened the hold he had on Sherlock's arse. The man was strong, even when sleeping.

Sighing and fighting the urge to rut against John's thigh, Sherlock waited a few minutes before trying again, this time grabbing John's wrist to prevent him from holding on. It took a while, mainly because their legs were so entangled it was hard to distinguish which belonged to whom. Once he was out of the bed, Sherlock took a few minutes to watch John sleep, but when he realised it was doing nothing to help get rid of his erection, he grabbed some clean clothes, and he made his way to the bathroom to take a very long, extremely cold shower. When he came down, John was awake and cleaning the dishes, still in his pyjama. He threw the dishcloth at Sherlock when he entered the kitchen, and out of reflex, he caught it. He observed John's demeanour, and tried to determine whether he looked as though he regretted asking to share Sherlock's bed the night before. Luckily, there wasn't a trace of awkwardness in him, and the wave of relief Sherlock felt was particularly refreshing.

"I'm going up for a shower, can you dry the dishes? I have a plan for breakfast if you're up for it," John said, and just as he was about to leave the kitchen, he turned around.

"Thank you," he said before hurrying out of the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't have time to respond, and soon he heard the bathroom door close upstairs. He figured the dishes would dry by themselves if he left them alone, and he put the dishrag on the worktop. Then, he picked up his mobile phone that he had closed the night before in order not to be bothered by Mycroft of Mummy. Or both. He almost never powered down his phone; people called him about cases on his phone, but a new case had been the last thing on his mind the night before. He turned the device on and waited for the familiar beeping sound announcing he had missed calls or text messages. When it came, he was surprised to discover he only had one message from Lestrade, which he didn't reply to.

When I said early morning, I meant early THIS morning.

Nothing from Mycroft, and nothing from Mummy. It was surprising, but he welcomed with open arms the fact that they were leaving him alone. Someone from Mycroft's team of obedient minions had probably checked the 'Watch Me Kill' website, seen that John was alive and well, and had told Mycroft who had told Mummy. Wonderful! It wasn't long before John came back down and he rolled his eyes when he noticed Sherlock hadn't touched the dishes.

"Are you eating this morning? I was thinking about pancakes," John said.

"For breakfast?"

"An army chef used to make them in the morning sometimes, I think he was French. Anyway, you seem like the kind to enjoy a sugar rush."

"Pancakes sound delicious," Sherlock replied.

"Well, the fridge is empty, so I'll go to Tesco's and I'll be back in—"

"No," Sherlock cut him off, "you're not leaving without me, not after you ruined a killer's plans."

John laughed; he seemed remarkably cheerful this morning, and Sherlock could feel John's almost childlike joy seeping through his skin and infecting every single one of his cells. They got out of the flat together, both looking around to make sure there wasn't a thin black-haired Irish assassin about to pounce. Fortunately, the scariest thing they encountered was a particularly vicious little dog that looked at John's ankle as hungrily as if they had been wrapped in bacon.

The trip was uneventful, but charming and domestic. Yet, there was a bitter taste to it, and Sherlock felt a rather painful pinch in his chest close to his heart as John handed him a dozen eggs. Was this what it would have been like to live with John? Working on cases, going to bed together, waking up in a tangle of limbs, going to the shops early in the morning, and gathering ingredients for breakfast? He could barely stand the thought of giving it up once Mycroft came back. What would happen to his interlude with John when their time was up? He could cling to the memories and bask in their sweetness, dealing with the pain caused by the remembrance of what John had looked like while he had slept close to him. Or he could try his best to delete every single memory of John. The thought was heart-wrenching, but maybe in the long run it would be the less painful option.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"Nothing's wrong, John," Sherlock answered, emerging from his gloomy thoughts.

"You seem a little…off."

"I'm fine. I was thinking about the case," he lied.

Sherlock mentally shook himself. He couldn't walk around looking miserable while John was still with him, there would be plenty of time for misery and self pity later. He had two days left with John; he had to make sure their time together was pleasant. First, they would eat breakfast together. Then, they would go to Scotland Yard and give their statement. After that, the day was theirs. Perhaps Lestrade would have a small case for them, something that wouldn't get John abducted, but that would still provide an enjoyable rush of adrenaline. Or they could take a walk again, test John's leg and run a little bit. They could spend a lazy evening home; John curled up in his favourite armchair while Sherlock played the violin for him. Maybe, if he was very lucky, John would have trouble sleeping again, and Sherlock would make sure John knew he was available to provide comfort.

Very soon, they were back in the kitchen. As Sherlock had predicted, the dishes had dried without any assistance, and he pushed them aside while John started working on the pancake batter. Eggs, milk, sugar, and flour went into the bowl one after the other while Sherlock watched with a small smile. There was a smudge of flour on John's nose that he apparently hadn't noticed, and Sherlock got closer. He discretely dipped a long finger in the flour bag while John was beating the mixture and frowning at the stubborn lumps.

"You have flour on your face," Sherlock announced, and John looked up, raising a hand to wipe at his face.

"Let me," Sherlock said again, and he used his flour-coated finger to leave a long white trace on John's cheek.

"Oh, you think that's clever, don't you?" John asked playfully, and he brandished the whisk as if it were a sword.

Then, he slowly slid a finger down one of the wire loops, gathering batter along the way that he flicked in Sherlock's direction, getting a few droplets in his hair and on his cheeks. Sherlock gave such a masterly imitation of a threatening glare that John burst out laughing, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, unaware that Sherlock had grabbed a handful of flour. John yelped when the white powder was thrown in his face, and Sherlock's low rumble of a laugh filled the kitchen.

John retaliated by plunging the whisk into the batter and flicking it at Sherlock a few times, sending long streaks of the pale preparation flying in his direction, hitting his chest and face. For a second, Sherlock stayed still as he felt the cold batter slide down his cheek and inside his shirt, but he was quick to recover; he grabbed a handful of sugar and started chasing John around the kitchen.

"You'll pay for this John," he growled, and John ran away from him, still laughing.

Sherlock managed to grab John's wrist, and he pulled him close to sprinkle him with sugar, the small crystals making his hair glisten. Then, Sherlock retreated to the other side of the table and John grabbed an egg, looking at him threateningly.

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock said.

"I wouldn't?" John asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"You'll regret it if you do."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," John replied, and he threw the egg in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock was quick to react. He bent down, and the egg flew over his crouched body and through the doorway, where it was caught by a puzzled DI Lestrade.

"Bloody hell! What's going on in here?" he asked.

Sherlock got up and turned around, surprised that he hadn't heard the DI come in. Mrs Hudson had probably let him up. Lestrade looked confused, and Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to figure out why; John's hair and chest were covered in flour and sugar, and Sherlock was dripping with pancake batter. John let out a small giggle, and Sherlock let himself be won over by the ridiculousness of the situation and he joined in. Both laughed, looking more like two children having been caught doing something particularly silly than two grown men making breakfast. Lestrade had to clear his throat numerous times to finally get their attention.

"Yes Lestrade, what is it?" Sherlock asked.

"The only reason I let you go yesterday was because you promised to be back early this morning."

"It's half nine! We planned on going after breakfast," Sherlock said.

"Were you planning on actually eating breakfast, or did you intend to just…throw it around?" Lestrade asked while repressing a smile. Twenty years as an uncle had taught him how not to laugh when kids did something stupid. Like throwing pancake ingredients at each other.

"Just give us a couple of hours and we'll meet you at the station," Sherlock said.

"Well, I'm here already. John, if you give your statement now, I'll leave you two alone with your…breakfast."

"Oh, alright!" Sherlock sighed. "I'll go clean myself up in the meantime," he said before grabbing a clean shirt from his bedroom and going up to the bathroom.

The last thing he heard before closing the door was Lestrade politely refusing John's offer to make him a pancake. It took a while to get all the pancake batter out of his hair, and in the end, he decided to take another shower. When he emerged from the bathroom, John and Lestrade were in deep conversation in the living room, and he sat with them until they were done. Then, it was John's turn to take a shower while Lestrade and Sherlock discussed the case. From Sherlock's point of view, it was useless. Jim Moriarty was a bit of an exhibitionist, but he was smart enough to avoid the scrutinising eye of Scotland Yard. Their conversation seemed as if it was stretching on forever, but it had probably only been a few minutes when Sherlock heard the doorbell ring.

:::

It wasn't the first time Mycroft had to cut a business trip short because of his brother; Sherlock did have a knack for getting into trouble. However, his reasons for coming back early this time were highly unusual. For the first time (and, hopefully, the last one too), he was coming back because Sherlock, who seemed as if he had taken a strange liking to his betrothed, had put John's life in danger. Thanks to his faithful associate whose job was to keep a watchful eye on the CCTV footage, Mycroft had a very good idea of what his brother had been up to since he had picked John up from the train station. What he had heard was worrying enough for him to come back earlier without telling Sherlock.

Mycroft hadn't seen any pictures of John; the revealing of the future spouses was supposed to happen the first time they were face to face. For Mummy's sake, he had wanted to observe the tradition. It almost hadn't felt like cheating when he had asked his team of most trusted employees to run a background check on the man he was going to marry. He had been assured that John, an ex-army doctor, seemed like a perfectly adequate candidate, and that he wasn't unattractive. He trusted his mother's judgement, but it was so easy those days to hide one's true identity on the Internet, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't running blindly into a trap.

Meeting John for the first time actually made Mycroft a little nervous. Unsurprisingly, working for the British government meant he had to meet new people almost every day, but meeting his future husband was different. There was always the risk he wouldn't like this John Watson his mother had found on the Internet, and the mere idea of how more difficult his life would become if he had to cancel his mother's plans made him cringe. It was also possible that John wouldn't like him, but if it were the case, it was unlikely John would ever call off the wedding. Mycroft was aware of the reasons that had motivated John to agree to an arranged marriage, and he wasn't bothered by those reasons. However, he didn't relish the thought of living with someone who despised him; he had had enough of that growing up with his brother.

He blocked those thoughts; it was useless worrying about that when John and he hadn't exchanged a word yet. He had known of the dangers of an arranged marriage long before he had asked his mother to find him a husband, and it was obvious the advantages outweighed the risks. His other option would have been to look for a companion the usual way, which meant he would've had to find the time to meet people, flirt with them, organise dates, ring them, flirt some more, date again…. All in all, it involved too much legwork, and he had done enough of that while climbing his way up the government ladder. Really, he was far too busy to devote some of his precious free time to such a tedious task as dating.

Despite his placid exterior, his heart was beating abnormally fast when he rang the doorbell of 221B Baker Street. He was about to meet the man who would be his companion for, hopefully, the rest of his life. The man he would come back to in the evening after a long day at work, the man who would accompany him to the numerous dinners and charity events he had to attend. The man who would let him into his life and into his heart, who would accept his friendship and love, and who would turn to him when in need. The man who would share his life, and he blushed just thinking about it, his bed. When Sherlock's landlady let him in, he climbed the stairs expectantly.

Sherlock was sitting in a leather chair, looking totally disgusted by his presence. That was normal. What was new was the man sitting across from his brother. From his point of view, Mycroft could see the man had grey hair, but the rest of him was hidden by the back of the chair. So, this was what his future fiancé's back of the head looked like: grey and uncommonly, exceptionally soft looking.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, spitting his brother's name like a curse.

"Is that your brother?" the man who had to be John Watson asked before getting up and turning around.

Mycroft swallowed with difficulty when he was faced with a remarkably handsome man. Under the hair (Mycroft still couldn't believe how soft it looked), there was a proud forehead and tired eyes of a colour that looked a lot like melted dark chocolate. His lips were thin and curved upwards, giving him a playful countenance although he looked truly exhausted. His cheeks were covered with grey stubble, and there were a few strands of grey hair peeking through his collar. Mycroft now understood why the first sighting had to happen face to face; it was overwhelming to observe all John's features at once.

Now that Mycroft had gotten over his initial reaction of 'handsome', all he could think was 'manly', yet not in a clichéd way. The man standing in front of him exuded masculinity, and if he hadn't known John had been in the army, he would have thought 'police officer'. There was something both authoritative and reassuring about the man, and when he smiled, all traces of fatigue vanished from his traits. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet Mycroft, which made him smile as he extended his hand.

"Mycroft Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and believe me, the pleasure's all mine."

Oh. So, this was the man who occasionally summoned his brother on cases, not his future husband. It made him wish he had taken the time to personally watch the CCTV footage of his brother instead of relying on his assistants. Something close to disappointment swelled up in him, but he refused to be disgruntled. Yes, he had been physically attracted to the DI, but it was probably only because he was expecting him to be his future husband. He didn't doubt he would feel the same once in the presence of John Watson.

"Sherlock said you are the most dangerous man I'll ever meet, I don't know if I should curtsy or arrest you," Lestrade added with a playful smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

Mycroft felt himself grow warmer around the collar, and he assured Lestrade that there was no need. He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes in his chair, but he paid him no attention. Instead, he spent the next minutes discussing the case of the Internet Killer with the DI while Sherlock watched in what Mycroft liked to call his thinking pose. They chatted until a man coming down the stairs interrupted them.

"Seriously Sherlock, you're insane. There was sugar in my belly button. Hell, there was some in my pants!"

Mycroft looked up, and he watched as the man who had to be the real John Watson came down the stairs. The man who, for some reason or other, had had sugar in his pants recently, was smaller than DI Lestrade, and if he had a little bit of grey in his hair, it was mostly a very light shade of brown. His blue eyes were sparkling, and he looked better rested than the DI. He was smaller, more compact, and everything about his stance screamed 'military'. John stopped at the foot of the stairs, and he looked at Sherlock, then at Mycroft, and at Sherlock again.

"Oh, sorry, hello," he said awkwardly, and after thinking for a few seconds, he walked up to Mycroft and offered his hand.

"I'm John Watson."

"How good to meet you at last. I'm Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft said, mentally berating himself for comparing his betrothed to another man during their first meeting.

John's hand was firm, warm, and dry when he shook Mycroft's. His smile was friendly and straightforward, and Mycroft could almost discern the edges of a strong body under the many layers of clothing. His team had been right; he was not unattractive. He looked like the kind of man who enjoyed calm evenings and lazy mornings, the kind of person who was gracious to everyone, and who would make a good impression. Yet, there was something in his eyes that suggested there was more to him than what was visible on the surface. Mycroft could see what his mother had seen in him; John looked like a living puzzle, as though he was made of contrasts and contradictions.

Gregory Lestrade left soon after, and Mycroft chatted briefly with John while Sherlock sulked in his chair. John kept looking at Sherlock questioningly, but his younger brother was an expert at brooding, and nothing could make him emerge from his grumpy state. Mycroft was used to it by now; it was the same attitude Sherlock adopted every time he visited him, but John seemed disconcerted by it.

"I'm eager to know more about the events of the last few days," Mycroft said, "but, if you don't mind, I'd prefer to continue our conversation in the car on our way to my mother's house."

"Sure, I just need to gather my things," John replied, and with one last look at Sherlock, he made his way up the stairs.

"You can wait in the car, John knows the way out," Sherlock said.

"What do you see in him?" Mycroft asked quietly. "He doesn't seem like your type."

"What do you know about my type?" Sherlock asked. It was unusual for him to keep his voice down; he obviously didn't want John to hear their conversation.

"Corpses, murderers, and people with interesting cases; those are the people you are usually drawn to. John Watson is none of that; hence my question. What do you see in him?"

"Piss off Mycroft."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Are you genuinely interested in him, or did I behold your latest scheme to make my life…difficult?"

"Go wait in the car, you are not welcome here," Sherlock said, ignoring the question.

"Yes, that much is obvious," Mycroft said, and for a few seconds that seemed much longer, he gazed into his younger brother's eyes.

He looked for the reason he had offered John his spare bedroom, was it just because John's help was required on a case? Sherlock seldom needed help, but John was a doctor, and he obviously possessed further knowledge than Sherlock when medicine was involved. It seemed highly unlikely that Sherlock had developed deeper feelings for such an ordinary-looking man; did his brother even have a sexual orientation? He had never seen him pursue someone romantically or sexually. It didn't leave him with many options; either Sherlock genuinely needed John's advice on the case (which didn't explain John's presence in Sherlock's flat on Sunday and Monday) or he had decided he wanted what wasn't his. Mycroft had seen it before; first it had been Mummy's attention, then food, toys, privileges, books, and science equipment.

"If you're not inclined to discuss the matter, I'll wait in the car. I'll see you on Sunday night for the engagement party," Mycroft said as he left the flat.

:::

If possible, Sherlock curled up even more in his chair. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! He had two more days, two full days before John had to attend his ridiculous engagement party. Mycroft had ruined everything, and how dared he barge in here to ask about the nature of his feelings for John when he couldn't even name them himself. They were supposed to have breakfast together, he thought petulantly as he dug his feet deeper into the leather armrest.

"What's wrong with you?" John asked when he came down the stairs with his enormous suitcase.

Sherlock looked up to glare at John, and his insides churned unpleasantly when he thought that not one week before, he had had difficulties hauling his luggage upstairs. What did he get for ridding his brother's betrothed of his psychosomatic limp? He got his two last days with John stolen away from him, that's what.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked as he kneeled beside Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock fixed his pale eyes on John, and the possessive monster inside him gave an angry growl at the remembrance of how amiable John had been to Mycroft earlier. He desperately wanted to be mad at John, to hate him for accepting to marry his brother, but it was insanely difficult. He could almost still hear the echo of their shared laughter in the kitchen, but John was looking at him with such concern that he felt his determination to be angry melt away.

"Don't marry him," Sherlock said impulsively.

For a moment, there seemed to be a sad shadow passing through John's eyes, but he closed them, and it was gone. He took a long, shaky breath and reopened his eyes, no trace of sadness visible. Instead, there was a strong determination, the will to fight. They were the eyes of a soldier.

"I have to," John answered.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, instantly hating how weak and pleading he sounded.

"I—It's the right thing to do."

"I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to. Please Sherlock, I have to—I need—Please come to the ceremony on Sunday night, maybe we can talk a little then," John said as he got up and walked away.

Every step John took away from him felt like Sherlock was being stabbed, and he knew what being stabbed felt like; he had been twice. John didn't even say goodbye when he closed the door behind him. He didn't look back, and it hurt so much that Sherlock wanted to both run after him and far away from him. He had asked John not to marry Mycroft; he had shown his hand, but John hadn't accepted, which was the same as being rejected. Yet, he still couldn't manage the strength to be angry. Instead, he got up and watched as John got out of the building.

Look at me, Sherlock thought. Look at me and I'll know it's not over. Please, please John, look at me.

He watched as Mycroft's driver got out of the black car, took John's suitcase, and put it into the boot. John's shoulders were slumped, and he was looking down; he seemed utterly defeated, and there wasn't any visible trace of the soldier in him. Sherlock's chest swelled with hope; it wasn't too late for John to change his mind.

Come back to me. Please come back, he wished as the driver opened the door. John seemed to hesitate for a second, and finally he looked up. Sherlock's hand shot out, and he pressed his open palm to the window. His mind was chanting 'John, John' incessantly as he watched John raise a tentative hand, a mimic of Sherlock's motion. When he lowered his hand and got into the car, something in Sherlock broke.

Anger flared up in him, burning hot and white as it licked at his bones. He could feel it swelling up everywhere inside him, and he let it consume him. As if possessed, he walked to the kitchen and glared at the two similar mugs on the table beside the pancake batter. He was supposed to have two more days! He grabbed both mugs and threw them at the closest wall, feeling a slight twinge of satisfaction when he heard them break. It wasn't enough, though. He then grabbed the heavy bowl, and with an anguished cry, he threw it onto the floor as violently as he could. The bowl smashed, pieces flying across the floor, and Sherlock was somewhat appeased when he watched the batter spilling slowly.

:::